Fast Forward
by ardavenport
Summary: Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon escape. Obi-Wan pilots.


**FAST FORWARD**

by ardavenport

* * *

Another explosion followed them through the corridor. Brown bits of ceiling and wall pelted them from above and all sides. Obi-Wan caught himself on the side of the doorway for balance as he rushed into a small room. Ahead of him, Qui-Gon turned about, his dark brown robe swirling around his body, briefly clinging to his legs. They seemed to be in a storage room, built like a cave, like the rest of the installation, the rooms formed from plasticized mud and ground organic matter. The scent of roots and decay increased with every rain of debris after every explosion.

Obi-Wan looked up. Qui-Gon followed his gaze to the small, rounded window above. The pane that had covered it lay shattered on the floor. Obi-Wan rushed forward. Qui-Gon's cupped hands easily lifted him upward and he quickly positioned his feet on his Master's broad shoulders.

He could see the landing field outside, their goal. Red and orange fireballs bloomed up and around it, and the building shook with each one. The fighters and larger craft were gone, of course. They were now diving and engaging the ships that were firing on the settlement. But there were still some orbital space skimmers, three of them in a row just outside the lift-line of the field. Small and cheap, but fast, they were useless in a fight and had been left behind, not even worth protecting from the powerful blaster fire from above.

With Qui-Gon pushing upward, Obi-Wan scrabbled through the broken, jagged window frame. His robe and clothes caught and tore on a few sharp edges that otherwise did not touch his skin.

Scrabbling up onto the ground, almost level with the window, he ran a weaving path over debris and through random blaster fire toward the nearest skimmer. A small and skinny teenager, he easily evaded it. Reaching the first skimmer, he slapped the canopy release with his palm. Nothing happened. Nothing activated.

An explosion close by threw pebbles and chunks of buildings at him, some of them heavy. One crashed into the canopy of the skimmer. It cracked.

Running to the next one, Obi-Wan fleetingly thought about the Force, guided by his outstretched hand releasing the hatch on the skimmer. But he knew the advance thought poisoned the action. Do or do not. He didn't have time to try.

The canopy of the next skimmer rose immediately after he slapped the access panel. Engines hummed and lights inside the cockpit flashed as he climbed inside. The seat was big and too far back and the restraint straps too loose, but the engines fired up immediately, the computer blinked yellow, then green for lifters, lift boosters, acceleration dampeners, thrusters, thrust boosters, internal atmosphere, auxiliary life support. There were no weapons. And only orbital impact and heat shields.

Nothing happened when he clicked on the seat adjust, so he scooted forward, the loose safety straps sagging over his shoulders. He gripped the control stick in his right hand. The weight of the ship vanished, the lifters cancelling out the planet's gravity. The ship immediately drifted to the left and he corrected, then swung it around back toward the meeting buildings.

There was a huge, gaping hole over the window that he had escaped from, black smoke billowing up into the clouded sky. Qui-Gon popped up from behind a fallen section of wall and ran straight toward him. Obi-Wan continued turning the ship. He released the rear cargo space hatch and it flipped upward.

Qui-Gon leaped, the Force strong and sure as his body arced through the air and dove into the opening. The ship tilted and bobbed to the left with the impact and added weight, the acceleration dampeners barely keeping up. He could feel Qui-Gon adjusting his position with every dip and pitch of the ship. Obi-Wan boosted the stabilizers. The last pilot had routed extra power to the thrust boosters.

A line of blaster bolts streaked across the landing field, tearing up the duracrete, the pounding muffled from inside the sealed ship canopy.

Obi-Wan swung the ship around and upward and it zoomed toward the mountains. The seat adjustment finally snapped into place, but he hardly noticed the jolt forward, the safety restrains pulling tight over his narrow shoulders.

The cargo hatch was still flashing orange on his board. It was closed, but not sealed. He couldn't go out of the atmosphere. He banked and rolled past a steep purple-lichen covered slope.

The proximity alarm signaled four pursuit craft behind him with a string of honking beeps. Four green triangles wove and positioned themselves behind his white one on the computer screen. Yellow blaster fire streaked over the ship's canopy.

Obi-Wan rolled the skimmer and plummeted into a ravine, hugging close to the side, the rock face whizzing by. A rock outcropping exploded to his left before falling far behind.

A fifth ship joined the other four on his screen.

With a quick right angle turn, the long canyon floor changed to a ribbon of overcast daylight. The ship wobbled and bounced with Qui-Gon's weight in back, suddenly shifting to the opposite side. The status light of the cargo hatch went red. Open.

Obi-Wan fought the stick for control and re-routed more power to the stabilizers from the rear thrusters. The previous pilot had clearly valued speed over maneuverability. He dodged rock outcropping and clipped the ends of snaggly branches. A quick dodge of more blaster fire forced him into a roll that almost turned into a spin around the ship's unstable axis before he leveled his orientation again.

The canyon walls vanished. He was surrounded by gray sky again.

The rear hatch indicator went back to orange again. Then blue. Sealed. Pressurized. The auxiliary life support activated.

Obi-Wan's thumb pressed down hard on the rear thrusters. The ship angled straight upward. Gray surrounded him. Hazy yellow streaks flashed through the clouds, cleanly missing him.

His ship shot out into blue sky and indigo thinning atmosphere above. The white-yellow sun blazed behind him.

Obi-Wan headed straight for the rings.

Five ships emerged from the cloud layer, blasters firing in nearly every direction but toward his space skimmer. But after a moment Obi-Wan's proximity alarm went off again with six green triangles on the screen. He rerouted power from the lift stabilizers to the thrusters and arced the ship upward.

The sky changed to black space and a spill of stars. A horizon of blue, pink and pale green stretched out beneath his skimmer. He dove into it. Energy bolts followed him.

A tumbling ring boulder exploded ahead on his right. He spun, angling around it, plunging into denser clusters of space rocks. A stream of pebbles pinged off his collision shields. Left, right, up, up, left, left, spin, tilt, pitch, bank. He knew each direction, every turn and thrust as they happened with a certainty solidified in the Force. One pursuer collided with a ring rock twenty times the size of a cruiser. The flash from the explosion receded behind him. He could no longer see the plane of the planet's rings; he was just surrounded by a floating debris, some of it the size of large hillsides.

His screen was a clutter of red round shapes and green triangles still shooting at him. Another one of them exploded, flashing and vanishing. Then another. Obi-Wan headed for a denser crowd of boulders and slipped in between two of them that were gently rolling in opposite directions. They collided immediately behind him, their combined masses crushing another purser.

Obi-Wan continued weaving in an out, deeper into the ring layer, but the yellow energy bolts had stopped. The last two fighters had turned back. His eye found a black shadow on a very large rock, a deep crevice with more than enough room to park his skimmer in. He headed for it.

He exhaled as the grapplers magnetized on the side of the crevice. On one side he saw the planet sliding into view as his haven rotated with its millions of other brethren in the rings.

Obi-Wan remembered looking forward to pilot training simulations. And flight trials. When he was fourteen. More than a standard year. A long time ago for him.

He slowed his breathing and turned around toward the rear of the ship, but there was no access to the cargo space. It was pressurized with emergency life support, but that was probably a mask with a portable oxygen supply. Probably only a few hours worth. The life support indicators for the cockpit were green, but it was not a fully recycling system. It would run out in time. Qui-Gon's would run out much sooner than that.

His hand went to his belt and pulled out his com. He stared down at the flat silvery device. Qui-Gon didn't have his. There were coms all over the settlement and they had been together most of the time anyway. Until Qui-Gon had gone into the hills with the elder Watcher and left his com behind for covert reports about the other settlements since the leaders they were speaking with were not entirely trustworthy. The Watcher had used it exactly once, to warn them about the raiders.

Obi-Wan again turned back toward the rear of the ship. He extended his hand; his fingertips touched the rough metaloid. It was cool. He looked back at the cargo space stats. It was pressurized, but heat was minimal and there was no light.

He looked out at the stark grays and severe black shadows, slowly moving as their hiding place rotated, the ring plane, planet and sun revolving around it. There was nothing but sudden death and cold vacuum outside. And instantly, Obi-Wan knew that this was a root to his disenchantment with piloting and space travel, no matter how fast and thrilling the action. The pilot by necessity was just an extension of the machine, the ship that supplied air and warmth and speed. Obi-Wan knew other Jedi whose Force skills flowed strongly in a pilot's chair. He had thought he shared that affinity, when he was younger, but now it seemed that he only had the skill. Not the thrill.

This made him smile, since Qui-Gon often expressed those sentiments. And Obi-Wan wondered if these were really his own emerging sentiments about piloting, or just his Master's biases affecting his own.

Warmth tingled his fingertips. It was Qui-Gon.

In his mind he could clearly see his Master, in the dark, lying on his side. touching the same spot on his side of the barrier, the Force gathered to his body for warmth, a face mask attached to a temporary oxygen supply though a coiled tube.

Qui-Gon trusted him.

Obi-Wan breathed in that trust through the Force like his own oxygen supply. They had to move. They couldn't stay where they were.

The com shrilled for attention and Obi-Wan reluctantly gave up the physical connection. But the Force connection was still there. He flipped the switch.

A four-toned call came from the sound grids. Low tone. Higher tone. Elongated slightly lower tone. Rising higher tone. It repeated. The only sound in the cockpit.

It was a challenge. From the Tzoomah, the raiders.

Obi-Wan checked the direction finder. The message was for him. The Tzoomah were challenging him to honorable combat. The winner would. . . . .win. And possibly be challenged to another combat.

This was what the Tzoomah did and had done for millennia. They took there unsolvable, angry problems to a green, neutral planet and settled them by killing off the opposing half of the argument. Back on their home world, they accepted the result and moved on to the next problem. It worked for them.

Until groups of Republic citizens established illegal settlements on the Tzoomah field of honor and then begged for assistance when they were attacked after ignoring the challenges issued to them. The setters were petitioning for the un-owned planet to be absorbed into the Republic, legitimizing their claim on the planet, and the Tzoomah weren't talking at all.

Until now.

Obi-Wan fired up the engines.

He released the grapplers, the space skimmer sliding out of his hiding place. It emerged into the ring field. He hit the thrusters, zooming and weaving among the rocks and boulders that could crush his tiny ship. Guided by the Force, his hand twitched on the control stick.

He cleared the ring plane.

The two remaining fighters were waiting for him.

Plus three heavier fighters and a small transport.

None of them were close and they remained stationary while he dove down to the planet. Then they all followed.

The skimmer's shields glowed blue, easily keeping back the reddened, super-heated atmosphere during reentry. The ship's computer had a complete map of the planet; there was a large grass plain on an equatorial continent that the Tzoomah favored for challenges. He headed for it. The other ships followed him from a distance.

Except for the impending mortal challenge, it was almost a pleasant flight, following the curve of the planet, high in the atmosphere over alternating dark patches of water and greenish brown islands of land. He could remember when he thought flying was fun. The ship crossed over a line of land that stretched into the distance on either side. After crossing over a ripple of hills there was only flatness beneath him. There were no clouds. He descended.

The plain was nearly as flat as a floor and pathetically easy to land on. He paused only a moment before popping open the canopy. The other fighters roared overhead and then turned around, coming back for their own landing. They set down close.

Obi-Wan stood on the pilot's seat and climbed out of the cockpit, sliding down to the ground. Immediately he thought he should have just leaped out and maybe landed with a flourish. He was going to a duel of honor. The time and weather were perfect for it, middle of the day, cool temperature with slight breeze, clear sky. The ground was firm and covered with yellow thin-leafed grass like a short fur.

He glanced toward the cargo hatch, but it remained closed. The challengers were already disembarking from their own craft. They had already seen him. The fight was his. But did Qui-Gon know there was a fight?

Obi-Wan laid his hand on the weathered metaloid. Immediately he felt the warm tingle of trust through his palm. Qui-Gon could certainly sense who was there. And why.

The fight was his.

He turned back to the Tzoomah and walked toward them.

There were nearly twenty of them, all armored and ready to fight honorably. They formed themselves into a semi-circle before him. The Tzoomah were hairless humanoids, with large, wrinkled heads and gray tusks jutting up from their lower lips. One of them, a male over a head taller than Obi-Wan, stepped forward. His broad chest armor was splattered white and dark red and black. He was a person of some significant rank. He opened a mouth of perfectly manicured and sharpened gray teeth and gave the same challenge cry that he had issued over the com. He snarled his challenge with a wicked grin and then howled out the four-note call again. His comrades grinned back and nudged each other.

Obi-Wan bowed deeply. The Tzoomah were intelligent and educated enough to understand. He had failed rather badly with Tzoomahti speech during the pre-mission briefings, to Qui-Gon's amusement. His Master had told him that he was inhibited and that they would train about it later. About him being inhibited.

They stepped forward. The Tzoomah took out a blaster. It was heavy gray metaloid with a serrated edge protruding from the butt end for hand-to-hand combat and a sight with a sharpened edge over it. More than likely the fighting edges could be energized.

Obi-Wan threw off his robe behind him. He unclipped his lightsaber and activated the blade, holding it out to his side and downward in a ready position.

All of the Tzoomah started, staring at the bright blue energy blade. The watching Tzoomah murmured among themselves. The wind carried away some of the low saber hum, but none of its deadly intent. They recognized the weapon. They now knew they had challenged a Jedi.

The Tzoomah immediately before Obi-Wan planted his feet firmly on the grassy ground, his expression determined, his brown eyes focused on Obi-Wan's gray-blue ones.

The blaster whipped up and fired a rapid succession of shots. Before the blaster fired Obi-Wan had spun. He evaded most of them and cleanly deflected the others. They harmlessly impacted the ground though a few of the onlookers jumped back.

The Tzoomah fired again, aiming randomly and at different parts of Obi-Wan's body, trying to score a hit. But Obi-Wan jumped and dodged. Not even his tunic was clipped by the fire. He could dodge blaster bolts from a single opponent until the weapon was exhausted. He already had in training. But this was a fight. A duel.

Obi-Wan advanced, still deflecting blaster bolts, forcing his opponent to dodge to the side. Obi-Wan's blade clipped the sights of the weapon with a squeal and bang of incinerated plastoids. The rank smell of the damaged weapon joined the faint smoke of burned grass. The Tzoomah kept firing and changing directions. His fellows all dove to the ground. Some began to crawl away.

They circled each other now. Obi-Wan's challenger wanted to kill. But Obi-Wan was hoping to disarm and press for surrender. And hopefully negotiate about the planet afterwards. He could not just gouge him or cut off an arm or leg. If he weren't killed after such a serious injury his comrades would drag him off to the wilderness to die in isolation with his disgrace.

Looking at his opponent's eyes, Obi-Wan could see the anger, fury at being thwarted and denied an anticipated easy victory against a smaller and weaker opponent. But there was no fear; Obi-Wan sensed none through the Force. He faced an experienced fighter who accepted the possibility of his own death while still throwing his whole being into his intended victory.

The Tzoomah suddenly dove forward and Obi-Wan leapt high with the Force. He felt fingers graze his legs. He landed, spun and attacked, but the Tzoomah had already pranced back with a cruel smile on his face. He knew that Obi-Wan was not trying to kill. He thought that he had the advantage.

He fired. And fired and fired. He wasn't going to stop until one of them was killed. Stray energy bolts pounded into the ground, small clouds of smoke rising from blackened grass. Obi-Wan dove forward, back, to the side, whirled and jumped. And he advanced, while his opponent kept backing up.

Then with one Force leap forward, he brought his blade down on the muzzle of the blaster, completely destroying the firing end. The Tzoomah howled defiance, raising the blaster high, bringing up the serrated blade for one furious and hopeless attack and an honorable death.

Obi-Wan kept going forward under the raised arm. Flicking his blade off, he thrust the butt end of his lightsaber into the Tzoomah's unprotected face. Stunned, the larger being staggered back. Obi-Wan twisted in place and brought the heavy saber hilt down on the now lowered wrist. The ruined blaster fell and Obi-Wan kicked it away before it even hit the ground.

He twirled one more time, evading a blind grab that almost got a grip on his waist.

Taking a fighting stance once more, Obi-Wan reactivated the lightsaber, the bright blade slowly extending outward toward his fallen opponent.

The onlooker began moving slowly back toward the conflict. The Tzoomah rubbed his face, his expression shocked. The heavy wrinkles and folds of skin had protected his fleshy nose. The blow had shocked and hit some nerves that were likely still stinging, but he wasn't seriously hurt.

Now, with his challenge weapon gone, the question was if he would throw himself, unarmed, onto Obi-Wan's lightsaber. Did he commit suicide? Or surrender? The disgrace was different for each, but just as bad.

Slowly, breathing hard, the Tzoomah lifted himself up.

He stopped at his knees, facing Obi-Wan's extended weapon. He lowered his head, his eyes to the ground. Obi-Wan extinguished his saber and straightened. It was over.

The other Tzoomah stared and then began looking at each other. Some started backing away toward the ships. Others exchanged low sounds to each other. Then one of the largest ones, with fewer splatters of honor on her armor, stepped forward. Her defeated comrade remained kneeling, his eyes cast downward. She glared at him and then at Obi-Wan and opened her mouth.

With a loud crack and a slam, the cargo hatch of the space skimmer opened and a dark figure flew out and up into the air. Landing in a crouch, between Obi-Wan and the new challenger, Qui-Gon faced her. Though she was bulkier, they were the same height. Qui-Gon's saber remained on his belt, but he pushed his robe back so it was clearly visible, his hands on his hips.

The would-be challenger backed away to rejoin her comrades, the ones who still remained.

Satisfied, Qui-Gon turned back to the aftermath of the duel. His lips curled in a grin. It was pure pride, gratitude and trust. Obi-Wan never felt more like a Jedi. The Force was strong between them. He nodded.

Qui-Gon sighed, looked down at the Tzoomah and croaked out the word for him to rise.

Well, it's wasn't a croak. It was a belch.

There simply wasn't any other way to form the Tzoomahti words without pushing the air up from the stomach through the throat. At least not without having them sound weak, their meaning unintelligible. Obi-Wan had tried, but he had not gotten enough volume into it. Qui-Gon had assured him that he would do better in the future.

After the defeated Tzoomah rose, Qui-Gon told him that they would be discussing the status of the planet and the settlements.

It was rude and crass and Qui-Gon still managed to make it look and sound dignified. Fortunately, Tzoomahti used short, curt words. And when they returned to the settlement they would be using the protocol droid they had brought with them.

Head lowered, the Tzoomah scowled, but he rumbled his agreement.

Obi-Wan kept his mouth shut and grinned. With as much dignity as he could manage. His eyes forward, he took his place beside and just behind his Master.

**!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! END !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!**

(This story was first posted on tf.n: 6-Jan-2008)

**Disclaimer:** All characters and situations belong to George and Lucasfilm; I'm just playing in their sandbox.


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